


Catch

by Pink_Hills (FantaOpossum)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1950s, Bad Parenting, Drabble, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Non-Graphic Violence, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, World War II, the flashback is set during wwii
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantaOpossum/pseuds/Pink_Hills
Summary: A father and his son play catch in their backyard. However, the mud from the last rainstorm serves to be much more than an annoyance.
Kudos: 1





	Catch

“Dad?” Ronnie chirped, tugging at Connor’s short shirt sleeve.

Connor glanced away from his newspaper to give his son a stern look. 

“What did I say about bothering me while I’m busy?”

Ronnie’s voice fell into a hushed whisper. “I just wanted to play catch…”

Connor’s cold disappointment melted away at hearing the softness in his son’s voice. He couldn’t help but feel the aftermath with a twinge of guilt. Looking at his son again, his heart sank a little bit more at seeing the sadness and disappointment written all over his face. At the same time, he could sense the tension in the room, that this was the response Ronnie was expecting from him.

Connor sighed. “We can go play outside for a while, if you’ve completed your schoolwork.”

Ronnie leaped up from his feet off the couch, bouncing with excitement as he dashed upstairs to retrieve his schoolwork. Connor hardly had time to place his newspaper on the coffee table, before Ronnie was back downstairs, packet in one paw and football in the other one.

He glanced over the problems on the worksheet, leafing through the pages as his son stared at him.

“They look correct. Come one, let’s go outside.”

Ronnie squealed with delight as he and Connor went outside in the backyard. He went out of his way to hop on a large puddle on the patio, splashing the bottom hems of Connor’s pants with dirty, stagnant water.

Connor opened his mouth to scold his son for his carelessness, but reconsidered his decision quickly.

His son ran towards the end of the backyard with the ball, squashing scant patches of grass left over from the severe rainstorm. The squelching noises from the mud fettered Connor with uneasiness as he followed his son. He stopped at a reasonable distance from Ronnie, and motioned for him to throw the ball.

Ronnie stretched his arm back as far as he could manage, before yanking it forward with all of his might. The ball twirled in the air, soaring until it landed with a noisy splat on the muck and grime in the ground. It was several feet away from Connor, adjacent to his right.

Connor could not help but roll his eyes. Ronnie may only be nine, but by God he refused to let him settle with a pitiful, mediocre throw like that.

Picking up the ball, he marched over to his son. Hearing the mud squish underneath his loafers only increased the intensity of tingling dread clawing at his brain. He planted the ball firmly in Ronnie’s paws.

“We need to work on how you throw the ball.”

Confusion and boredom struck Ronnie, and it was as clear as a sunny day, based on the expression on his face. 

“Uh, alright…”

Connor stepped to Ronnie’s side. 

“Okay, reach your arm back, like you’re going to throw the ball.”

Ronnie cranked his arm back, before Connor shook his head.

“No. You’re holding your arm too far back, and your grip on the ball is terrible. It’s not a vase, it’s a damn ball. You need to do it more like this.”

Connor took a step forward, and used his paws to adjust Ronnie’s throwing stance on his arm.

He froze when his foot was completely submerged in the depths of a mud puddle. He could feel the murky water pool around his foot.

Apprehension and dread swept over Connor’s whole body. His fingers and legs were twitching with anticipation as he was back in the jungles of New Georgia. The rumble of fighter planes whizzed over his head as his feet sunk further into the wet depths of the mud. He could feel the heat swarming around him like the malaria-infested mosquitoes that killed so many of his brothers in arms. 

Blood roared in his ears as he heard the corporal on his team shout about Japanese infantrymen approaching them. A loud bang, and a skull-splitting crack of metal and bone made Connor flinch. He recoiled at the newfound dampness of his uniform and face as the corporal’s blood splattered onto him. Connor could only watch in shock and terror as his superior he knew for months collapsed in front of him. The Japanese soldiers did not cease their charge towards his team, only making the situation worse with the toss of a grenade. 

He darted forward, grabbing someone by the arm as he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Grenade, grenade!”

Connor let go as he made a nosedive for the ground, desperate to escape from the impact and shrapnel of the grenade.

He got back up on his feet, blood coursing through his veins and ready to mow down his enemies accordingly.

“Dad? What are you doing?”

The soft, yet confused tone of his son’s voice made him stop. His son looked scared, and both his shirt and pants were caked in mud. Connor became flushed with embarrassment and humiliation when he realized what he was doing.

He wasn’t in New Georgia anymore; he was in his backyard playing catch with his son, where he was supposed to be.

Connor explained sheepishly, “I don’t know what came over me. You know how I get sometimes. Don’t let it bother you.”


End file.
